Wings
by SomewhereApart
Summary: For the OQ Prompt Party, Day 3. #151 Regina owns a bar and Robin is a regular who has a secret crush on her.
1. Chapter 1

_For the OQ Prompt Party, Day 3. #151 Regina owns a bar and Robin is a regular who has a secret crush on her._

* * *

Roni knows what all her regulars drink. She prides herself on it – after all, it's good business, and she may have fucked up plenty of other things in her life, but she's a good businesswoman. At least she has that left.

So she knows that Sophie always orders an amaretto sour, no less than two, no more than four – unless that absolute loser Jaxon has gone and gotten his dick wet somewhere else again. Then she might hit five, even six or seven, and Roni discreetly calls her a cab.

Jasper always orders a gin fizz, because he thinks it's retro and he's a terrible hipster in entirely the wrong bar. Maria bolsters her courage with Long Island Iced Teas, and then finds a friend to take home for the night. Aaron drinks Patrón Cafe all night long, as he sits at the corner table and scribbles stories on napkins (he says it helps him stay awake, Roni very much doubts that). Henry always orders hard cider, and she feels a ridiculous urge to cut him off after three.

Finn drinks whiskey. Neat – with a glass of ice on the side, and a water back. Except on Tuesdays, because Tuesdays are dollar wing nights – and Finn never misses out on dollar wings. On Tuesdays, Finn arrives promptly at seven, orders a dozen flaming buffalo wings, and washes them down with two Sierra Nevadas. And _then_ he orders whiskey, neat, with a glass of ice on the side and a water back.

And tonight is a Tuesday, so she's watching the door, keeping an eye out for those deep dimples and cobalt blues.

Finn is nice to look at. Easy on the eyes, and a great tipper, and that accent of his… well, it does things to a lady, that's all she's going to say about that.

And she likes his taste in liquor.

She also likes his predictability, his timeliness. She could set her watch to Finn Archer on a Tuesday night. Or she could most Tuesdays, anyway, but it seems tonight is not one of those nights.

It's 7:17 on a Tuesday night and the third stool from the left is empty.

She tells herself not to be disappointed. Tells herself not to be worried. He's probably just gotten himself a life (good for him), or a date (fuck her, whoever she is), or he's stuck working late at the shelter.

And she wouldn't care normally (she wouldn't, really, she wouldn't), but that bitch Victoria had come by again this afternoon, with her pencil skirts and her too-skinny heels, and her offer of a whole lot of money to buy out everything Roni has worked so fucking hard for. That whole lot of money, and just a little bit of not-so-veiled threats of what could happen to said business if she doesn't just agree already and let this silly tug-of-war go.

(Victoria drinks Chablis. Victoria is a cunt.)

The whole thing left a sour taste in her mouth, and she could really use a joke, and a dimpled smile, and a bit of overzealous yelling at one of the soccer matches she's started to play on the TV with the best sightlines to the third stool from the left.

So he's late, and it's annoying, and she cares, a little.

She has her back to the bar at 7:23, when she hears his voice rasping familiar over the Stones on the sound system (she can't get no satisfaction either, Mick). He says her name, "Roni," and she smirks, and pushes the register closed.

"You're late, Phineas," she clips as she turns, and then all the blood in her body runs straight down to her shoes.

His lip is split, and his nose is bleeding, and there's a rough red spot below his eye that's already starting to swell.

"Oh my god, honey, what the hell happened to you?" she asks, and if she could _hear_ the tenderness in her voice, she'd feel like an idiot, but she's too busy crossing the space between them and pouring ice into a glass as he presses a shitty bar napkin to his lip to stanch the bleeding.

"What does it look like?" he mutters, wincing slightly as she presses the cool glass of ice gingerly to that rough redness around his eye. "Got jumped two blocks over on my way to get my bloody Tuesday night wings."

She thinks of Victoria, of _We're trying to improve the area, Roni, to keep it safe for customers of fine establishments like this one_ , and grits her teeth. If this is at all her fault… (Guilt worms deep into her gut, churning and hot, and she doesn't like the sight of blood on him, doesn't _like_ it, hates it, it makes her sweat, makes the edges of her vision pulse blue for reasons she can't quite fathom.)

"Did you get a good look at the guy?" she asks.

"Guys," he grunts, pressing another napkin to the thin stream of blood trickling from his nostril to the quickly saturating square held against his lip, and this is just ridiculous. Napkins aren't going to do the trick. "And no, not really. I mostly got a good look at their fists."

"You need to vary your routine," she mutters – first rule of safety, never walk the same paths every night, take a different route, a different time. Whatever. Things men never have to learn, until they get pummeled on dollar wing night.

Finn scoffs a little, clearly not amused with her, and gripes, "Right, I'm sure it was my routine they were after and not my wallet."

She rolls her eyes, and gives a holler to her waitress to keep an eye on the bar, then walks Finn around to the other side and leads him back to her office.

"Sit," she orders, pointing him toward her desk chair. That anxious guilt eases just a little when she catches the way he smirks (and then winces) at the order.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he murmurs, sinking into the chair as she fishes out her first aid kit and plunks it onto the desk, flipping it open and pulling out an ice pack. She gives it a good crack, then hands it over, and roots around in the damn thing for some gauze and alcohol wipes.

"You wanna call the cops?" she asks, turning back to him as she rips open a wipe. She mutters, "This is gonna sting," and then she dabs the blood away from his nose, swipes down over the stubble on his upper lip, then folds it and wipes it gently over the split.

Finn hisses sharply (and his nose oozes a bit more, so she tips his chin up, back), and says, "I'm not sure there's much of a point. They're long gone now."

"Maybe," she admits. "Doesn't mean you can't file a report. And everyone around here has security cameras."

His brows lift and fall, half-hidden on one side by that ice pack he's dutifully holding to his face. She dabs at his lip gingerly with a clean square of gauze – it's still bleeding, but she doesn't think it needs stitches, so she presses the gauze firmly in place and watches the way the smile lines around his eyes deepen as he winces.

Those eyes really are _so_ blue…

She's never seen them quite _this_ close; she and Finn have never been quite _this_ close. Close enough for her to smell him, a mix of sweat and something woodsy. Close enough to see the silver streaks infiltrating his temples, his beard.

Close enough to become suddenly very aware of the warmth of his hand cupping her thigh, just above the back of her knee.

They realize it at the same time, they must, because those too-blue eyes widen ever so slightly just as she stiffens and blinks.

Well, this is… new. She should back off, should step away, should probably give him a hard sock in the shoulder for putting his hands on her uninvited. But he's already injured, and truth be told, she doesn't exactly… _mind_ the warm weight of his hand where it is. It's very low, not anywhere really… out of bounds. Except that all of her is out of bounds, because he's a patron and she's not a hooker.

She should really make him move.

Any time now.

Right now.

His thumb moves, strokes ever so slightly up and then down, and she forces herself into action, clears her throat and mutters a warning, "Phineas."

"I'm beginning to regret ever telling you my full name," he tells her, hand falling away before he gives her a proper, "And...Sorry. Instinct."

One dark brow rises up, up. "It's your instinct to caress my thigh?" she questions doubtfully, and the uninjured side of his mouth curves up.

"Alright, 'wildest dream' might be a more appropriate term," he teases, his voice lower than it's ever been before (they've never been this close, close enough for soft utterances and for his thumb to still be pressed against the outside of her knee, even with his hand back in neutral territory on his own leg).

She realizes she's practically standing _between_ his legs – is _literally_ standing between his legs, and her skin flushes hot, her heart knocks twice.

She scoffs, "Right," and shifts to take a step back, but she's still holding that gauze to his lip, so she's... sort of stuck here.

Not that here is a bad place to be.

"You doubt me?"

"Little bit," she clips. "I don't think I'm anyone's wildest dreams, sweetie."

He looks at her then, really looks at her. Eyes she could drown in, pulling her down deep, and there's something he wants to say. She can see it in his eyes, in the way they flit over her face, the way his mouth twitches slightly under the gauze pad she's holding.

And then he swallows and grimaces, tilts his head forward and says, "I'm swallowing blood; you're not supposed to put your head back with a bloody nose."

Right. She should have known that. She _does_ know that. How she gets so rattled by a pair of blue eyes, she'll never know.

Her "Oh," sounds incredibly lame, but he either doesn't notice, or doesn't care, too busy holding out that ice pack to her and asking if she can take it for him for a bit. She nods, and they swap, and now she has two hands busy trying to ease his pain, as he uses one of his newly freed hands to gently pinch his nose shut.

It looks like it hurts; he should probably ice that, too.

"It shouldn't take too long," she assures him. "You're not gushing."

Finn lets out a little grunt of acknowledgement, and then he's glancing at her again. No, looking at her again. Staring.

After a minute, he asks her a very stuffy, "You really dob't tink you're anyone's wildest dreabs?"

Roni snorts – she tries not to, really she does, but, "Okay, please don't try to flirt with me right now; you sound ridiculous."

"Not flirting. Honest questiob."

It is, she thinks. His sincerity has her focusing suddenly on his lip, easing the gauze away to check if it's still oozing.

"I think…" she murmurs, because he's going to wait for an answer. She knows him well enough to know _that._ She wants to tell him that she thinks wildest dreams are useless, and that the last time she was somebody's, he ended up dead and they don't want that, now do they? But that's… personal. Too personal for a guy who comes in three nights a week to drink her whiskey and watch soccer and eat wings.

So she doesn't say any of that, she just says, "...that we could butterfly this and you'll be alright."

Finn rolls his eyes as she tosses the bloody gauze to an empty patch of desk and nicks a steri-strip from the first aid kit. She needs two hands to trim and apply it properly, so she drops the ice pack on the desk for a second, too, and tilts his chin up _just a little_ for better light.

She's squinting at the little gash as he lets go of his nose (thank God) and says, "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Roni freezes. Blinks. Watches crimson leak slowly from his lip as he moves it again to add, "Stunning, in every way."

She swallows heavily, and he continues, says, "And you're funny. Smart. And you don't take anyone's shit, which I like." That thumb brushes her knee again, up, down. "And you've a very kind touch, as it turns out."

Roni licks her lips and stares even harder at his, finally placing the steri-strip over the cut, holding it together as best she can.

When she finishes, she reaches for the used gauze, the steri-strip wrapper, avoiding his gaze as she tidies up. She's not sure _why_ , she just… didn't expect this. From him. Tonight. Or ever.

He's a nice guy, a good tipper, who drinks good whiskey and makes her laugh, but she never realized that he looked at her and felt all of _that_. And it's not a bad thing, she just… she's just surprised, that's all. Caught off-guard.

His head dips down, tilting into her peripheral vision as he says, "I'm sorry if that was too forward. And maybe I should have saved it for when we weren't alone in your office for the first time, and me all beat to shit. You don't have to… say anything. I just thought you should know you're brilliant, and I don't come here just for the wings. Although they're brilliant, too."

She cracks a smile at that, risking a glance back in his direction to find him looking apprehensive and hopeful, and God, so fucking handsome. He really is, isn't he?

Roni takes a deep breath and reaches for the ice pack again, lifting it gingerly to the nose that's still bleeding just a little.

Then she meets those blue eyes, takes a leap and tells him, "I like you, too. Phineas."

He grins, as best he can, anyway, and when that warm hand finds its way to that same spot just above the back of her knee, well, this time Roni doesn't do a thing about it.


	2. Chapter 2

_For OQ Prompt Party Day 5:_ _129 Any domestic OQ kitchen chores with Regina in one of Robins shirts._

* * *

From the moment he'd walked into her bar, Finn Archer has always thought Roni was sexy.

She'd been giving some witless fool a talking to about smacking one of her servers on the ass, all fire and protective temper, and Finn had been sunk. He had a soft spot for bold and audacious, and she'd planted an arrow dead in it, and then pushed it deeper and deeper with every passing happy hour.

He'd fallen for her sense of humor, the acid burn of her wit, her tenacity. Had been helplessly attracted to the quiet steadfastness of her compassion, the way she shepherded the people she'd decided were hers, the regulars, the neighborhood. He loved her spine.

And then, well, there was looking at her. He's always been a sucker for dark eyes and even darker curls, and she has both in abundance. Not to mention an ass that looks incredible in the tight jeans she tends to wear, and lips he's wanted to kiss since he first saw them sneering at that asshole on day one.

So yes, he's always thought she was sexy, but nothing, not a damn thing, had ever come close to measuring up to last night.

Last night, when weeks of flirting openly and shamelessly had finally come to fruition. They'd been having a grand old time of teasing each other, ever since that night he got his face good and bloodied. She'd been slow to open, a bit guarded, but once it had been established that both of them were, indeed, interested in each other in that particular way, she'd become far freer with meaningful glances and innuendos and all manner of teasing that made him even more addicted to her presence than he had been before.

Still, they'd taken their sweet time getting around to things. They'd tested the waters of flirtation, waded in and splashed about a bit. And he'd taken to staying later and later at the bar, closing out the place more and more often. Throwing back a few private shots on the house after all the salt and pepper shakers had been filled and the counters wiped down.

It had been one of those very nights that he'd finally kissed her. They'd been sitting side by side, sampling a new whiskey she'd ordered in, a single pour for each of them in a lowball, as they chatted inanely about notes and flavors and all sorts of things he cared far less about than the way her perfume was making him delightfully dizzy. She'd refreshed it at some point, didn't smell quite so much like hops and spirits as she usually did.

She smelled like sandalwood, something warm and earthy, and he'd wanted to dig in deep and put down roots there. Stay a while. Soak up every good thing she had to offer, and other terrible metaphors that perfume-induced dizziness can draw out of a man.

She'd licked her lips, freshly slicked with a deep berry red, and he'd been unable to look away. Had watched the way she'd formed words with rapt attention, had thrilled at the white flash of her teeth when she smiled. And then had felt the embarrassed blush creep up the back of his neck as she ducked her head down just enough to meet his gaze and asked, "Is there something in my teeth or has this gone on too long for your tenuous hold on sanity, Phineas?"

It had been that – her insistence on using the full name he so loathes, and the smirking sass with which she always flings it at him – that had broken him.

Her words seemed permission enough – they both knew where this flirtation was headed – so he'd reached over, given her stool a good yank to the side to bring it in close, and swallowed her startled yelp with a bruising kiss.

And she'd just laughed.

Just let out this quiet chuckle against his mouth and wrapped an arm around his neck and pressed against him until she was damn near in his lap.

He'd left half an hour later, with his mouth smeared berry red and a half-mast stiffy, even more thoroughly besotted than before.

That had been a week ago, and now, here they are. In his kitchen at noon on a Sunday, freshly woken after a night of incredible sex.

If he'd thought she was tempting _before_ , it was nothing compared to finally giving in. To the sight of her above him, her hair a wild, finger-raked mane of ringlets, breasts bouncing slightly with every thrust as she took him in to the hilt, moaning her appreciation all the while (he's always loved her voice, the edge of it, the sultry velvet tones, but hearing her like _that_ , God, he feels himself stir again just thinking about it). To the smell of her, sex and sweat and sandalwood, and the warm, eager press of her hands on his chest, his shoulders, the bite of those red-painted nails as she arched her back, and came and—

"What are you thinking about right now?" she asks like she knows _exactly_ what he's thinking about right now, one hip leaning against the counter's edge near his stove as she stirs up a bowl of pancake batter. She's in his Mariners t-shirt—something she'd snagged from his floor this morning, her own blouse and skinny jeans lost somewhere between door and living room—and he can't stop staring at her legs, has spent the morning distracted by the peek-a-boo curve of her ass as she'd shimmied slightly to the Stones on his speakers, humming about her lack of satisfaction as she'd whisked.

He's not exactly been subtle about his admiration of her, so he doesn't bother to be coy now, just shrugs and says, "Last night. Having you again, here, on that countertop."

Roni pauses for a moment, and grins at him, then turns back to pour her pancakes with a drawled, "Oh, really?"

She pours out a dollop into the pan, the action lifting the hem of the shirt just enough to see the curve of her ass yet again. Bless that shirt; he may never wash it again.

"Mmhmm," he tells her. "I find I quite like you in my shirt."

"Mm, and here I thought you'd like me better _out_ of it," she teases back, and he grins.

"Oh, I do definitely like that, too," he assures, rising from his seat and moving to wrap his arms around her waist as she pours another circle. "But there's something very appealing about you wearing my clothes." One of those hands slides down, dips beneath the hem of his shirt and tucks itself away between her thighs. She gasps softly at his touch, and Finn noses down along her neck to murmur, "And nothing else."

Roni lets out another little laugh and sends a half-hearted elbow back into his ribs.

"Easy, tiger. Keep that up, and I'll burn the pancakes," she warns, but she's grinning now, arching slightly into his touch.

When she presses her ass back against him and rubs teasingly, he decides _Sod it_ , and reaches over to kill the heat beneath the burner, insisting, "We can make more."

She turns her head – to scold again, he thinks, but she surprises him, pulling his mouth down to hers and kissing him eagerly.

In a moment she's up on the countertop, and they're thoroughly wrapped around each other again.

His shorts end up on the floor, his vest as well.

His Mariners t-shirt, though, that stays on.


	3. The Adventures of Dave the Dog

_**Author's Note:** For OQ Fix-It Week Day 6, Roni day. Yes, this is super cracky. Yes, there will be more. Yes, we will eventually find Snow._

* * *

Of all the ways he could have been cursed, David has to admit this could be worse.

The meals are pretty terrible, he's not used to having hair this long and shaggy, and he has an itch he can't quite move in a way that he can easily scratch. But it could be worse.

Twenty eight years in a coma was definitely worse.

At least the company here is good.

Case in point: As he twists and stretches trying to get at that itch, failing and only managing to vigorously scratch right nearby it, Robin reaches over and gives him good scratch right where he needs it.

David would sigh if he could, leaning into the touch with a happy thump of his tail.

"How's that, boy?" Robin asks him kindly, scratching for another moment and then rubbing his hand over David's ruffled fur. "Did I get it?"

David drops his head back down next to Robin's leg on the couch and thinks to himself that it's not ideal, waking up one morning as an Australian Shepherd on the floor of an unfortunately-very-cursed Robin's apartment. But at least this time, he knows who he is.

 **.::.**

He needs to find Snow.

She's here somewhere, she has to be. David looks for her constantly, _feels_ her in the neighborhood, somewhere. Feels that pull of her presence as he always has.

She's nearby, she has to be. She's here with him, somewhere, and he will find her again.

He enjoys walks – not only for the fresh air, but because they give him a chance to look for her. To sniff her out. Literally, as weirdly gross as that is. But the whole world looks different now, feels different, smells different. Everything is _more_. The trash smells trashier, the flowers in the windowboxes smell sweeter, and there is dog scent _everywhere_.

It's weird, and kind of gross, but also… kind of cool, if he has to be honest. He's been around animals his entire life, and he's always wondered what it was like to live like they did. To run full tilt across a meadow (the dog park is a pale comparison, but he's done several good laps around it, has played and wrestled and rolled in the dirt with other dogs until he was panting and thirsty), or to spend all day in a sunny patch of the apartment floor, to have someone scratch lazily at that spot on the back of his neck for awhile. (Robin wouldn't be his first choice for that, but he certainly could have done worse – just think if he'd ended up as _Gold's_ pet.)

It reminds him somewhat of being a child. Of being back on the farm. Of rolling down the hill near their home until the world spun when he sat up, and he stumbled like a drunk up the slope to go careening freely down again.

And it's temporary, this curse, being stuck in this form. He knows it is, it has to be. Somewhere, Emma is working to save them. Somewhere, he'll find Snow and they'll share a True Love's Lick or something, and the curse will break. He knows that.

So for now, he's going to run around that dog park, and wrestle with a beagle, and bound across the grass toward Robin when he gives out a whistle, and shouts, "Alright, Dave! Time to go home!"

He lets himself be clipped into his leash, and wishes desperately for a drink as they head home. His tongue is lolling, his breath heavy, and he's so distracted by how _thirsty_ he is that he almost doesn't feel it at first.

But then he does, all at once.

They turn down a different street than usual, and David _feels_ her. Somewhere in his middle, somewhere in his heart, he feels Snow. She's nearby, he just knows it.

His ears perk up, his nose tipping a little higher toward the sky as he looks frantically around the block, hoping for a sight of her, of another dog, but he doesn't see anything. Just a sandwich board propped on the curb under a neon sign that says _Roni's_.

Maybe she's not a dog here, he thinks. Maybe she's human, and it's only _him_ who's the dog.

Still, he feels that pull, that inexorable tugging at his middle, and he leads Robin down the street anyway. It grows stronger and stronger with every step – she's nearby, she _must_ be _._

"Come on now, Dave, where're you going?" Robin grumbles, tugging a little on David's leash as he practically drags the man behind him.

By the time he reaches Roni's, David's heart is thudding hard with that familiar feeling, and he drops to his rump just outside the door and looks up to Robin with an imploring whine. He's not above begging if it will get him in the door. Snow is on the other side of it; he just _knows_ it. He can feel it in these borrowed bones.

"You in need of a pint?" Robin asks him, teasingly. David just looks at the door, then back at Robin, offering up some pleading eyes for good measure. "I don't think they'll allow pets inside, Dave," Robin tells him, and David lets his tongue loll out, panting a little harder. Robin won't let him go thirsty for _too_ long; David knows that.

The former Prince of Thieves is good with animals; David's been stuck like this for three weeks now and he's yet to go hungry or thirsty for too long. He has plenty of toys, gets plenty of walks, plenty of rubs through his thick fur.

It's a little weird, having one of his friends give him a rubdown, but it feels nice. And besides, he's a _dog_ , he's supposed to enjoy being petted. Just like he's supposed to employ every adorable weapon in his arsenal to get his way – like another whine, another pitiful glance.

"Oh, alright, buddy, but if we get kicked out, you're paying the tab," Robin tells him, pushing open the door that will hopefully reunite David with his true love.

What he finds on the other side of the door is almost better than the cursed wife he'd been expecting.

Regina.

Of all people, _Regina_ _Mills_ , former Evil Queen, mother to Henry, and – most importantly in this particular moment – soulmate to the guy holding David's leash, is standing behind the bar, with curly hair, gold hoop earrings, a skin-tight black top, and a temper.

She looks… not herself, not like any version of herself that he's ever met (okay, there may be the hint of an Evil Queen in the way she's berating one of the few customers in the place for, from what David can tell, getting fresh with one of the waitresses), but David doesn't much care.

He'd have preferred Snow, certainly, but who knows what kind of shape she's in (literally). Under the circumstances, he'll take dragging two people in love to their first meeting – and potentially getting them all out of this mess when the two of them inevitably fall for each other. They always do, right? Every version of them has made it work, somehow, eventually.

It's that "eventually" that gives him pause, rearing its ugly head when Regina tells said guy at the bar to take a hint or take a hike, and then turns her temper toward himself and Robin. She frowns down at him, and says, "That better be a service dog, or I can't let him stay."

Robin grimaces a little, and shrugs, says, "Sadly, no, but I think he's parched. He practically dragged me in the door. I don't suppose you could spare a thirsty dog a drink?"

Her frown softens a little at that, and then Regina is sighing heavily, and pointing to a table on the far side of the nearly empty bar.

"Take him over there, I'll get him some water," she orders, adding, "But if I'm watering your dog, you better order something." David hears her muttered, "Someone better order something, or I'll be feeding the chicken fingers to my cat…" but he's pretty sure it's low enough that Robin misses it.

Either way, they head over to the table she'd pointed out, one in a little recessed area, with a sofa for seating. Robin settles down into the cushions and reaches for the menu propped on the low table; David settles dutifully on his rump beside him and waits for Regina to bring him some water.

She's back a minute later, a little bowl filled just for him. It's cool and fresh and David laps it up greedily.

"Oh, come on, can you not get water all over my floor?" Regina sighs, and David looks up to find her staring down at him in a way that is more recognizably _her_ than anything else in this place.

He forces himself to drink a little less sloppily, careful not to let drops of water splash all over the floor, and he hears Regina say, "Huh," and "Smart dog."

"He's brilliant," Robin says, dropping a hand down for a quick pat between David's shoulder blades. "Sometimes I think he's smarter than most people. And I swear he knows how to work my remote."

Regina laughs softly at that, one of those sort of scoffy disbelieving laughs of hers, and David thinks this is good. They're flirting. Or Robin is, anyway, and Regina is letting him. This bodes well.

With any luck, they'll have this curse broken in no time, and he'll be back with Snow and Neal. (He tries not to think about Neal, tries to tell himself that he's safe with Granny somewhere, or protected by Blue and the fairies. Worst case scenario, he's somebody's puppy – hopefully somebody kind.)

"I mean it," Robin says, still flirting. "I come home sometimes and he's parked on the couch watching nature documentaries."

Regina lets out a little snort, then crouches in front of David and asks, "Hearing the call of the wild, are you?"

He is, to be honest. This place is too urban. Too much concrete, and too few green things. He misses the forest, misses the smell of fresh air and pine. These days, the closest he gets to pine is Robin's woodsy aftershave.

She's watching him, tilting her head a little, and David lifts his head to peer back. She's definitely cursed, Regina. There's not a hint of recognition in her eyes, and everything about her is just wrong. She moves differently, and her voice isn't quite right. She's in skinny jeans, and he can count on one hand the number of times he's ever seen her in denim.

But she still smells the same, he notices – can't help but notice, dog senses and all. A sweet, fruity shampoo (apples, he thinks, and that's awfully fitting), and a sort of warm, expensive-smelling perfume. It's familiar – one of the few things during this curse that has been – and he finds it oddly comforting.

She reaches down to the collar around his neck and peers at his tags, one brow lifting as she looks over to Robin and asks, "Dave? Please tell me that's your name and not the dog's."

Robin laughs, and tells her, "It's his; mine's Finn. Yours?"

She tilts her head toward the door, looking at him like he's maybe very slow, and tells him, "Roni."

"Ah," Robin says. "Should have known. Well, Roni, if it makes you feel any better, he was a rescue. The name came with him."

She _Mm_ s, and mutters, "Well, _Finn_ , then I suppose I'll reserve my judgment just this once…"

Regina gives David a good scratch behind the ears, and murmurs, "His coloring is gorgeous," and then she's pushing herself back up to her feet with a little grunt, and a creaking crackly sound he can hear in her knees. "If I was a dog person, I might like this guy."

"Not a dog person?" Robin asks, feigning dismay. "Now I'm not sure I can trust you."

She smirks, and shrugs, telling him, "I work a lot. I don't have the time to take care of a dog. And they're sweet, but I'm not sure I trust anything that loves that easily. Love is for suckers – suckers and puppies."

Ah, there's the jaded, closed-off Regina he remembers. Damnit. This whole curse-breaking thing might be harder than he'd thought.

"Ah, so you prefer standoffish and aloof?" Robin flirts (thank God for his persistence). "A cat, then?"

"If you must know, yes," Regina tells him. "She was a Christmas present to myself a few years back. I thought she'd make things… a little less lonely at the end of the day. And she does, but I always thought cats were low-maintenance."

"Aren't they?"

"Oh, not Princess Snow," she says and David almost chokes on his own tongue. Snow! Snow is with _Regina_. "Which is what she gets called when she refuses to eat the cat food I buy her, and instead wants to steal my sushi. Or when she refuses to use the litter box and insists on using my toilet instead." Regina pauses for a half-second, giving a little half-frown of concession and adding, "Although that one's not so bad to be honest – until I forget to leave the seat up and she pees in my bathtub."

Robin chuckles again, shaking his head, and grinning at her and saying something about that being truly unfortunate. Their eyes meet, lock, and linger in a way David has seen time and time again.

Regina breaks first, sucking in a shallow breath and glancing away not-quite-casually (David remembers that, too, from that year they spent trying to pretend they _didn't_ like each other in the Enchanted Forest). She recovers, though, snaps back into her bluster and asks, "So are you going to order, or am I going to have to berate you for stealing my water under false pretenses?"

"Water isn't free?" Robin asks cheekily, glancing down at the menu again.

"Not for our furry friends, no," she drawls, still waiting expectantly.

"I'll take a dozen flaming buffalo wings, and a Sierra Nevada," he tells her, "And thank you – for watering the dog."

"You got it, thief," Regina smirks, softening just a little to add, "And you're welcome," before she saunters away.

Robin watches every step of the way, and thank God, because David knows his best chance of seeing Snow again – of reuniting their families, all of them – is for Robin to keep coming back to this bar long enough to realize he's stupid in love with the woman who owns it.

When she's disappeared out of sight, Robin leans down close to David and whispers, "Thanks, buddy."

If dogs could grin…


End file.
